


Painting Rainbows with Fountain Pens

by SardinesAndSarcasm



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Human, Language Barrier, Psychological/Physical Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardinesAndSarcasm/pseuds/SardinesAndSarcasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is poetry; it is an alarm. It is beautiful; it is tragic. For the end is nothing more than a starting round: shall you get up and advance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting Rainbows with Fountain Pens

  **Phase 0**

 

Where our story begins, there is a cart. Rickety, endowed with steel, hobbling along in its laboured, appalling journey: throughout lands once a fertile green; bursting with life, flowers and wheat as far as the eye could see, according to the conspirers of the old world. Like the poster children on ancient _Argos_ magazines – men and women too mechanically joyous, teeth too white.

They all despise them, really.

Yet they cling to them like fucking _gems._

Humanitarianism, supposedly, though man is no longer _kind_ , their grins no longer set in Barbie’s plastic – they _spit_ upon those petty figurines disguised as fitting casts. For instance: in our wibbly-wobbly cart, there is a man who may not stand upon his own two feet, as our Apollo observes (he is another matter altogether, one best left out of sight, out of mind), for fear of disturbing the mutated, pulsing stump.

Mutation by radiation. The luckiest had belonged to the preppers – many a relative would be _repulsed_ to hear – for they had not suffered the bludgeoning of man’s own might. The very same that had ravaged the streets, conjoined hands with cups, liquefied backs into seats, and sucked the life from the grand destination.

Our Apollo had been lured by those very same images – the ones that bore their teeth, advertised whatever contraption, whatever Mecca they were unable to reach now, now that the floor had been pulled from them, and they spiralled, down, down, down.

And here, at last, is where our story may truly initiate itself. With our Apollo face-down in the dirt, a sign peeling like an oak sunburn glaring from above.

 _Sangatte Centre Réfugiés_.

* * *

 

**Phase I**

 

Humanity itself was subjective. This is a fact alone that we may derive, and therefore was _not_ manipulated for circumstance; an embellishment untouched by the mockery of bright ads or hoover sales. One may argue such analysis is _objective._

For you see, age 15 was rather a grand one for this new earth. They had accomplished whatever they found possible, such as piecing together the society once lost from the guidance of paper – carts ran by motors that ticked and whirred, notebook bindings were strung with cogs, and clicked appealing when one were to settle down for the evening, colours were formatted, whole new varieties of murk and ash ( _and this one is called ‘desolation red’,_ as mocked accordingly) – though casualties grew more and more profound, and rumours of further breaching to undealt uranium played into every mind.

Our Apollo’s place in this new system is known to us _out_ of attire – a homely jumper smelling of jam and toast burnt almost to a crisp, fibres simulating nails to back in a way only a homemade one could dare. He is tracing a ridge in the table meticulously, this minor imperfection, and cuffs siphoning movement – too baggy, too preposterous for his malnourished form – with a spoon clasped within his left hand. His hair is like straw, unwashed for a total of 2 weeks, clotted with grease, mud, whatever may find its way inside. One could liken it to a bird’s nest, or perhaps a hat from which random objects could be withdrawn. His clothes are that of the Provisions Unit's – bright blue overalls, loud, flashy. _He_ feels he looked more like a walking sleeping bag than any functioning member of society.

All matters of narcissism aside, the place itself is rather grand in comparison to the common structure of shelter. The dirt road leading up to it is a prime example: houses are stunted, the top half of a pentagon making up the structure, chimney and attic meeting these irregular corners. They are slanted, unstable – allegedly pulled from the designs of the houses within the hills, featuring in the odd snippet. _The future_. _A new style of living._

He downs the bitter liquid to his left. It seems to cling to the taste buds, and the gritty, unrelenting texture of the clay’s imperfections scrape an inflamed path down one’s throat. The table is jostled by an almighty _thud_ , and shakes his prize of nourishment to the petty surface.

Over there, to the end, sits a collection of guards. They are well-built, skin fit to burst like tightly-packaged meat, heads shaved and noses following the format of a Mexican wave. Our Apollo never has figured out for what kind of government they served, or if, even, such systems remained alive; though their crests intrigue him, birds of an angry red intertwined, dancing across the left breast, akin to the heart. They lean across the side – the men, that is – downing the finest in the house, dismaying resident after another; such was their purpose, supposedly.

_Damn, the scotch here is piss-poor; right, men?_

_Quite right, quite right…_

_Yes, definitely._

Our Apollo deems their commination insignificant, and returns to his beverage.

It would be grand, though, to become one of these men, these catered for gents. They sit and crow, making whatever remark they _choose_ (lord knows how quickly _he’d_ keep his occupation), and at the end of the day, venture onward. To brilliant skies. Entire _oceans,_ dyed an emerald to rival the looming forests, canopies of wildlife. There was a world, of course, beyond this dirt road in France, and lives to be lived save for handling canned goods.

One would be blind to miss it.

Thankfully, he thinks nothing of it, discards the thought, and the same to his leftovers, sitting in wait for another to have their meal. Though time is not as much of an obstacle as in the old world, the sun is dangling by a thread, which sounds the time for his next load of unpacking. He thumbs the letter opener in his pocket – to retract the blade, to extent it – for this will be his closest grasp of a weapon on his journey to the vault door to his left.

It opens with a creak to nullify his ease, and the stench of damp overcomes his nostrils. It is archaic, not updated like the rest of the place. The ceiling is his sky itself, riddled with holes bearing secrets. On a hot day, they are the starlight. On cold nights, they are the bringers of the rain that lashes his back.

However, what is missing from this colourful elaboration is a state neither warm nor blistering. There is something beyond the dreary reach of metal and oil. Or someone, either or thereabouts.

His work hardly grants him the title, in retrospect. He withdraws the letter opener and strikes the folds of the nearest bound box, tape falling apart almost at the very touch, and from it, a hack emerges at the onslaught of musk, the general fug of its contents.

It is shit, what they are being fed.

Expensive to ship, though never anything more.

Canned fish – brine has become difficult to procure, they stew in the measly container _dry_ – formula substitutes more cheese than nourishment, bruised fruits; in fact, the water itself is the only remarkable product present out of the batch – two barrels for the week, given five days to remove the chippings.

The hours drag by in defiance.

* * *

**Phase I.I**

 

_From here on, it must be observed the rarity of these artefacts. Standing before us is not a one, a man, to dawdle – thus he complies – nor squander his profits – not that he was in possession of any corporeal reward for his laborious efforts – and therefore, we will conclude that where he stands is his time and his place._

_However, there is a sense of unrest at the solo congregation, a placement so out of whack that his hands are growing all the more still, and his gears grind to robotic practise, and all else is forgotten and forgone._

_It is a stamp on his attendance to public demand, another hour closer to night and rest._

_It is simply life, as dull as it has ever been._

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first instalment, a test of the series' potential for continuation. Updates cannot be promised in any sort of cycle, though I aim to upload in phase batches to make the wait worthwhile. In the meantime, why not contribute an opinion? It may very well decide the story's future.


End file.
